


Nonpareil

by starfishing



Category: Kuroshitsuji
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-27
Updated: 2010-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishing/pseuds/starfishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her laugh is a songbird in an afternoon nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nonpareil

The Queen's work is never done; as such, neither is her dog's. He knows he cannot rest until she is satisfied, because she cannot rest until she is satisfied. Still, the late hour wears on the edges of his consciousness, his eyelids and his heart heavy with exhaustion. He hasn't slept in what he fancies to be days.

The crisp autumn wind swirls leaves around him in the dark, and he sighs again, breath bright in the air. He's cold, he's tired, he's starving and he's miserable, and his target is far more tenacious than he has any right to be, but he swears the end is in sight. All he has to do, in the end, is outlast this small wretch of a man; a simple feat for a Phantomhive. His determination is ten times that of his opponent, and twenty times that of any other man, save - perhaps - his father.

His father. He can nearly hear the man in his head, stern, chastising: "And what is a dog if not dogged? A mongrel, boy. Do not sully the Phantomhive name with your whims."

And he hasn't yet, and he won't still. Only lately has he learned to reconcile his whims with his duty, but it's damn well paying off. Vincent Phantomhive is as feared a name as his father's, to the right people, and to everyone else, it is revered. The public loves him and the underground cowers, as well they should. He has accomplished something, by now, that his father has not - he is loved _and_ feared.

The sound of a windowpane catches his ears, drawing him reluctantly from the warm blanket of his thoughts. He steadies his gaze on the cottage and watches the man glance anxiously about.

"Come out, little fox," Vincent murmurs against the stock of his rifle. "The dogs are away and the men are at play."

He can't see Vincent from down there, but he's stupid to think that the coast is clear. He knows who he's dealing with, after all. Vincent can hardly believe his luck when the man's feet hit the ground. He should have hit the ground running, because the next step he takes is his last.

"God rest your soul." Vincent draws his cloak around him as he departs. Scotland Yard will have a merry time sorting that one out.

His return home isn't half as triumphant as he feels it should be, given the long wait for his devastating victory. The house is quiet, the windows dark, and even the dogs in their kennels offer no joyful greeting. He hangs his cloak and coat in silence - Tanaka is in bed, or at least he'd better be. Vincent gave him strict orders not to wait up for him.

"Vince?"

The voice is soft, unexpected and delightful. He can feel his heart and his cheeks warm at the very sound, and he turns to face her with a smile ready.

She's there, peering around the corner into the parlour, sapphire eyes dark and glimmering. The half of her face that he can see is the very definition of a sight for sore eyes. Even in the low light filtering through the curtains, he spots the small smile that bows her mouth.

"Rachel." He comes toward her, only to see her shrink back, further behind the wall, and stops short. "Rachel?"

Her laugh is small, sweet and embarrassed. "I'm - I'm sorry; I'm not... decent."

Surprised, he laughs along with her. She is a darling thing, and suddenly, he's not a bit tired anymore. "I wasn't aware of the sorts of things you did in men's homes when they were away."

His gentle provocation almost works. Rachel steps forward again, though she remains behind the wall, and makes a sound of protest. "I was hardly doing any sort of thing! And at any rate, I - I..."

"At any rate... ?" he prompts quietly, impossibly curious.

For a moment, she remains silent, examining the carpet near his feet. At last, she finishes, "I've never found myself indecent in any man's home but yours, I suppose."

Vincent feels his heart flutter - ridiculous, the things she does to _him_ , a grown man, a watchdog, a killer; she simply takes him apart, she does, with her smiles and her saccharine sweet, dulcet tones - and he exhales on another chuckle. "I'm quite glad."

No sooner have the words left his mouth than he wishes he could take them back, and finds himself scrambling for something to append to them, instead. He can't have her thinking he expected any less!

"Glad that I'm not indecent in other men's homes?" she asks, halting his careening train of thought with apparent ease and sweet, sweet mischief in her voice. "Or glad that I'm indecent in yours?"

Vincent's mouth stumbles over a response, so he shuts it, feeling his face warm again. What a petite little nonpareil she is. "A bit," he manages, "of both, I should think."

She giggles, more flattered than mischievous now. "I came to call on you this afternoon, since I hadn't heard from you in nearly a week. Mister Tanaka insisted that I stay for dinner, and then sent me to bed, since I had - well, a glass or two, I suppose, of the merlot." She ducks her head. "I heard you come in."

"You heard _someone_ come in," he chides, "and you came down in your nightshift to greet them?" The actual idea of someone having harmed her is a bit far from his mind right now, but it's somewhat more appropriate to discuss than the glasses of merlot she's had, or how very little there is standing between his eyes and her bare skin at this very moment.

Her teeth catch her lip and his throat catches his breath before it ever reaches his chest. She smiles around the coy little gesture. "I saw you come up," she admits, "and I watched you take your horse to the stables. I knew it was you."

"I suppose it's excusable, then," he replies, taking his eyes from her mouth to meet her gaze again in the dark. "I should walk you to your room," he says, "but for me to do that, you'd have to come out from behind there, and it simply _wouldn't_ be excusable for me to see you in such a... state."

Rachel seems to turn this over for a moment before a smile blossoms again. "You're a gentleman, aren't you, Earl Phantomhive?"

It sounds like a trick question, but he answers it truthfully, because it's too late and he's too far gone to come up with a witty way around it if it is.

"Most days."

Her laugh is a songbird in an afternoon nap. "Can I trust that you're a gentleman this day?"

The daring, flirtatious part of him wants to tease her, and that part of him - and much more - sincerely wishes he _weren't_ a gentleman this day, but he cannot lie to her. He hesitates, laughs; it sounds embarrassed, even to his own ears. "I would be wounded if you didn't trust me."

"Then close your eyes," she says, a bare arm slipping up onto the wall nearest him. He catches just a low, warm glimpse of her shoulder and collarbone, barely veiled in gauze, and commits the captivating image to memory as he lets his eyelids flutter shut.

He waits, barely breathing, until he feels her hand on one of his, tiny and soft, hot against his frigid skin.

"You're freezing," she whispers.

"I'm warmer than I was," he answers, and he still can't lie. His skin heats with every touch, every heart-squeezing, soul-touching smile she throws his way. She makes him feel ridiculous.

"Walk forward," she instructs, "and trust me."

Walking with his eyes closed feels like too much of a gamble, even in his own home, but he fights down his instincts and takes a step, following as he's led. She pulls him along, sometimes walking forward and sometimes backward; he can feel her hand twist in his when she turns her back on him. He also hears her bare feet on the carpet, suddenly hushed.

"The stairs," she says, her voice above him now. They climb together, her fingers interlacing themselves with his own, one hand in his and the other on his upper arm, guiding. Her feet step off the carpet runner and onto the hardwood, and she says, "The landing now."

The remainder of the walk is shorter than Vincent remembered. He feels himself sigh, resigned, when she releases him.

"You can open your eyes now," she tells him. He does it slowly. The hall upstairs is as dark as the parlour was, and Rachel is silhouetted in her doorway, light trickling in the window behind her. Her body is hidden behind half the door. "Thank you for walking me to my room, Earl Phantomhive," she says, solemn and formal.

Despite himself, he chuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he assures her, and extends a hand for her to take. She places one of those delicate little hands in his again, and he lifts it to his lips as slowly as he can manage. "Until the morning," he says, and is rewarded with another soft songbird laugh in the dark.

"Until the morning, Vince."


End file.
